Bad Romance
by Miss-Murdered
Summary: "I did not want my knight in shining armour. I wanted my soldier – my violent, passionate man who set me on fire like no other could. I wanted Heero Yuy. And I would never truly have him." Relena POV. 1xR.


Disclaimer: Still don't own...

Pairing: 1xR

Warnings: het, m/f sexual relations, some language, angst

A/N: Inspired by the 30 Seconds to Mars cover version of Lady Gaga's _Bad Romance_ as there is something far too angsty and sexy about the way Jared Leto sings it. And yes, I usually write yaoi but I wanted to write het so here it is. Usual service to be resumed shortly.

Thanks to ELLE for the beta as always.

**Bad Romance**

My mother was not my real mother, this I had known since I was fifteen and saw the man who I thought was my father die in front of my eyes, yet despite that fact she would always be the only mother I had ever known. And she was the dispenser of motherly advice and concern and always would be.

The advice she had given me on my wedding night was not something I required though I smiled at her and nodded, asserting that I was naïve even though I had long since gone past that. I may not have had sex with my husband as protocol dictated – he had courted me so traditionally, so publicly, so _perfectly_ but I was not the virgin wearing white that my mother thought of me as.

I wanted to smile at her eyes, full of concern for this first foray into womanhood, or what she thought was my first foray into womanhood, as she told me to let him initiate the encounter. I believe the gist of her speech was to lie back and think of something else. She warned me of blood, of pain, and I genuinely felt like sighing. I was standing in the most elaborate wedding dress that money could afford, the many pleats and lace making me feel like a China doll, a tiara that had been in the Sancian royal family perched atop my head and I looked the very image of decorum. Of the perfect bride. Innocence and fresh faced youth at twenty two.

My wedding had been televised to the world. My brother had walked me down the aisle, his gloved hand steadying me as if he knew more than he would ever tell me. I think Milliardo knew my eyes drifted towards a man in formal Sancian clothing leaning against the wall at the edge of the room despite the fact my future husband was waiting at the end of the lines of pews. Milliardo had always known. He had asked me once, at the ball for our engagement, why I was doing this – marrying a pompous earl from Luxemburg rather than the intense young man who had saved my life on numerous occasions – and I had only flicked at his hair, leaned up into him, my heels providing me with the necessary height, and whispered into his ear.

"I can't tame him."

Milliardo had smirked and raised an eyebrow – my brother more knowing than my mother – and his eyes had flickered towards _him_,wearing a suit and implementing security procedures and understood.

"I see."

There was nothing more to be said. My brother would never know that I snuck away with him during my engagement party, that he kissed me with unbridled intensity, that I raised my skirt and allowed his touch, his fingers, the swipe of his tongue until I was wanton and _his _and demanding whatever he could give me. I did not want to tame him – oh no, I did not want to put him into my world, to loop my arm around his and walk through the gardens of Sanc in bloom and discuss politics. I wanted him like he was – like he'd always been, since we were fifteen and he took my virginity like I hoped he would from when I had first laid eyes upon him – dangerous and exciting, a shooting star that had descended into my life with a gun pointed at my head and a threat to kill me. My feelings for him were nothing if not tainted by our past of threatened violence and the barrel of a gun.

I didn't want to change him. And once he offered, once, maybe when we were still too young, he had asked if I wanted him like that. If I wanted him to put away his darkness, his violence, his stern expression and his fierce eyes. Yet he would not be the one I wanted if he was like that. If he was the simpering husband I'd just committed my life to. The man I was now obligated to.

The advice on my wedding night had not been entirely unused. My husband's hands had been so delicate on the lace and satin of my dress, scared, afraid, maybe of the expense or of the expectations I had of him once we were undressed. My husband's hands were nothing like his. I remember once, the kiss of a blade on a long dress, so impatient to be inside me, to be thrusting into me and making me feel so desired and wanted that I would permit the destruction of my clothing just to feel him, hot and hard, and close, his eyes so dark that the blue almost had been eradicated as he looked at me for one moment in the darkness of another hotel suite, my hand buried in his hair as he stilled his hips, stood together with one of my legs wrapped around him as we had not made it to the bed – and then he would move and I would come undone. He always ensured I came. He was the most unselfish lover – no, not unselfish because he always reached his climax, his eyes closing, his breath a whisper over the shell of my ear and I would feel him shudder and release and I would run my hands all over him, grip him tighter to me – but he would never leave me unsatisfied. It was an admirable quality in a man.

Unlike my husband, who had no sensuality, no feral quality, no dark eyes, no desire to make sure I attained pleasure. I did lie back and think of other things on my wedding night – the beautiful lingerie discarded and not appreciated – and I thought how our wedding night would've been. I would've stripped for him, maybe, I thought as managed to make the correct noises as my husband's unskilled hips flexed and I felt so far from orgasm from the experience. _He_ would've watched the white removed from my skin – the symbolic display of pureness gone – and I would've made him watch, test his patience until his hands were balled in the sheets and I gave him permission. Maybe I could never tame him but I could make him heel. Wait. Do as I wanted.

I would've kissed every part of him, unlike the awkward kisses I shared with my husband. I would've trailed my mouth and tongue down his chest and taken him in my mouth as his hands sought out my skin. I would think how it was something good girls did not do. I would think how I didn't care as I would suck on him until he became impatient, pulling me up, caressing my breasts, teasing nipples with his tongue and sliding his fingers inside me to feel how wet I was, how turned on, how much I wanted him.

My husband could not elicit that response.

My real wedding night had lasted minutes, his steady rhythm, him on top and awkward movements providing little stimulation.

Afterward I departed to the bathroom, excused myself to shower and continued my fantasy of _him_. I teased myself at first, running fingers over my nipples and imagined his tanned flesh against my paleness, imagining him behind me in the shower as we had done on a trip to L3 and he had bypassed my security to find me there naked and said only one word.

"Relena."

And I nodded my permission. He dropped his clothing and stood behind me, using soap and water to massage my breasts, his mouth on my neck, his hardness against my lower back sliding and then his hands slid over belly-button, down, to touch, to flick a skilled finger and I was in no mood for game playing. I bent over, braced my hands against cold tile, and the memory of hot water, of him and of his body provided me with the necessary mental images for my own fingers to slide at the rhythm for me to come. Thinking of him always had the required effect. I did not need books or images. I had memories. I had seven years of them.

The day after my wedding my mother smiled vaguely at me as though desiring some confirmation of the deed being done and I gave her a half smile. It seemed that this satisfied her. I think my mother was of the opinion that women like myself should expect no better, that we should marry for obligation and political allegiance and suitability rather than for wants and needs and desires and love.

My honeymoon was as disappointing as my wedding night. The secluded mansion in the heart of the desert was Winner owned and entirely beautiful – the pool glistened in the sunlight, the rooms were covered in gold leaf detail and I ran my fingers over tapestries and paintings that went back centuries. The alcohol flowed, the food was plentiful but I was already missing him. He was assigned elsewhere, the security for my honeymoon not requiring his special skill set and as much as I thought I could demand that, demand him here, I did not.

The nights spent in the glorious mansion were filled with missionary position sex where eye contact was meant to be held, where I was meant to be silent, where I was meant to only moan the occasional approval. He didn't say anything. He didn't caress my breasts, didn't put his hand between our bodies, he had both hands at the side of my body and moved in an inelegant piston style motion. No additional movement of his hips. It was meant to be making love, I believed, that's what he thought he was doing. Yet I did not want to made love to. Sometimes a girl just wanted to be fucked. And it was _him_ who could do that – had done that – and my skin tingled at the thought of him.

Upon returning from my honeymoon I did not see him for some time. He was assigned elsewhere. Wufei took control of my security and while I enjoyed Wufei's company, my body yearned for _his _touch. I thought about contacting him. I stared at a vidscreen on multiple occasions, suddenly so nervous, so girlish and everything I never wanted to be. I could stand in front of politicians, televise live broadcasts to the world yet there I was unable to contact the man who had seen me naked, who had touched me so intimately, whose mouth and tongue had trailed over every inch of my body and had brought me to shuddering intense orgasm so many times.

It was now a month of so called marital bliss and I had not seen him. I was sitting at a patronising event for young girls that so disgusted me yet I could not avoid attending. It was hosted at the home of ESUN bothering old-fashioned nobleman Richard Beaufort by his wife as an attempt to encourage the daughters of tomorrow into politics and I had to do a speech to "inspire and motivate." I had the speech to do so I departed from the table where I had been forced to listen to the opinions of old women and field infuriating questions about when I was thinking of having children. I went in search of a quiet room to find some solitude to calm myself before I approached the podium with anger that was not required or helpful.

I was walking down the corridor when suddenly I realised I was being followed. Which is not unusual as I have a vast security team and one would typically follow to ascertain I was in no danger. Yet I felt… like I was being stalked and I felt strange heat on the back of my neck.

I found what must have been a library and study for Beaufort, opening the door, and as soon as I walked inside I felt the attack. I was not untrained in self-defence. When you are as high profile as I am, it is important to have some ability but as I felt myself being pushed to the wall, I yielded as I smelt his skin, a smell that made something in the pit of my stomach come alight and I was already entirely his.

"Heero," I whispered.

There were questions I could ask him – like what was he doing here, now, as it was entirely inappropriate – but I could not stop myself from reaching out to his face, memorising it again after so long, how the fall of his hair made shadows across his eyes, how his jaw was firmly set, how he looked at me like I would surrender to him as I had always done.

"Relena."

Words were unnecessary between us. My husband would tell me how beautiful I was as I undressed for him. My husband would speak a million compliments and platitudes as though they made me feel desired. Heero did none of that. He only said my name in the way that had always sent shivers up my spine and then kissed me – his mouth warm, his lips chapped, his tongue insistent. His hands already sought out my blouse, removing enough buttons and exposing the black bra underneath, his hands and touch firm and arousing.

There was no need for gentleness with him. I am sure I have made love with him – when he has stilled above me, inside me, and we have looked into each other's eyes and we had a moment of thinking that our lives were unfair, that I had duty and obligation and I could never have him. Not how I wanted him – like this, his lips trailing from my mouth and his hands exposing my breasts from the cups of my bra, too impatient to remove it wholly – and I moaned as his tongue swiped around my nipple. I did not want him to be my consort. I wanted him exactly how he was. Heero was still the man I fell in love with and I would have hated myself if I had forced him to become less him.

"I don't…" I tried to speak, my voice stuttering and panting as I reached for his dark hair and he moved to kneel at my feet, his hands trailing up the inside of my thighs, his fingers reaching to my panties where he would feel that I was already wet for him. Embarrassingly so. All he needed to do was kiss me and I was no longer the demure politician. It had always been that way.

I wanted to tell him I had no time for extended foreplay but I felt my head loll back against the door as his fingers were touching through lace and the feel of his confidence, his knowledge of my body was enough to shake the foundations of any respectability I had. That I was now a married woman but I would not give him up, never despite the fact my husband should be my world, and should be the only one in my bed. Or in my heart.

"There's no time," I said, through parted lips as his fingers bypassed material and my breath hitched as they slide inside me.

He understood, he always had, and he stood, his fingers slipping out and we were kissing again and he touched me with such rough impatience, such desire that I could no longer contain the feeling in my stomach as I took some initiative. I pulled at the shirt tucked into his black pants, ran my fingers up underneath the material to feel those defined muscles and pushed him with my hips and hands towards the couch by the window. I may not be able to tame him nor did I want him that way, but he could take orders when required. It was something that made me smirk into his lips. Still always the soldier. His legs hit the back of the seat and our lips part and I smile as I say one word – my command that he will obey.

"Sit."

I do not think I have had much control over anything we have ever done since we were fifteen but then as I look at him, as I slide my underwear down my leg and over my black heels, him watching them fall, that maybe with him I am just as untamed. I would not do as I do now with the man I should, the man who is all respectability and speeches about continued peace. I do this with the man who had blood on his hands and whose eyes are darkened with lust as I reach to unbuckle his belt, caress him through material and feel him hard for me just as he always is. I own him as much as he owns me.

His hands take over from mine and I want to laugh at his sudden impatience, at his need, and I do not know if he has someone else or multiple someone else's spread across the colonies and earth but I know that if there is, they are not who he wants just as my husband is not. I do not care if there are a million hers or hims – for in these moments he is mine.

His applies latex onto his hard dick, the rip of a packet sounding so loud as then we can finally consummate the lust that has built between us since he stalked me through the corridors. I slide my skirt up and straddle him, my knees on either side of his and then use gravity and lower myself onto him, feeling the intensity of us together. All our history, all our moments, from the heated times in secret, to the moments that were more tender, when he stroked my hair from face and tried to be what he thought I wanted him to be. What I never really wanted him to be.

I did not want my knight in shining armour. I wanted my soldier – my violent, passionate man who set me on fire like no other could. I wanted Heero Yuy. And I would never truly have him.

His mouth was hot, his tongue and teeth nipping at my jaw, my throat as I move above him, as I bring myself crashing down onto him and he thrusts up into me. We always had a perfect rhythm, always knew the ways to move against each other and it was not like the stuttering motions of my new found marital bed. It was slick and perfect. Like he would always be to me.

My hands wove into his hair as his head descended to my chest, as one hand supported my movements and aided me so that I could collide back down with him, mostly dressed as he sucked at my left breast, a tiny hint of teeth on my nipple as his hand sought out underneath my skirt and I could feel all those intense feelings crash into one another. My hips stuttered, unable to continue as I felt my body thrum in a way that only he had ever achieved, as I panted out my lust and desire. I could sense his smug look despite not seeing his face – could sense the way he would look as he brought me to the edge as he knew he could do this to me – he took pride in it, I supposed, but I did not complain as I felt myself reach completion, drifting through the haze of it as he continued his upwards motions, each one drawing out my own orgasm until he came himself, his pants against my skin, his tongue at my chest as he did.

There is a part of me that thinks I should be embarrassed by this – by us – that I should be the girl my mother thought I was on my wedding night, that innocent young woman dressed in her white dress… yet even as I feel my heart rate decrease to something that resembled normal, I am not.

For a moment, his head raises off my throat and our eyes meet, his eyes still so intense, as intense as they had always been from that very first moment and I leaned forward to kiss him, the gentle touch of our mouths our goodbye as I move off him, feeling empty again as I reach for my panties and heels, rearrange my clothing into something respectable.

I know I should feel bad, that I now am the adulteress, no longer just finding sexual comfort with my girlhood crush in secret but instead cheating on a man who is naïve of this – who lies next to me at night and who I cannot love as my heart will always belong to the man who dresses with quick efficiency and steady hands. The man I decided to let go as I could not be her – the woman who destroys the man she loves. I preferred my own unhappiness to seeing him confined, to seeing him lose whatever made him what he was and I would keep him forever as he was – my first time, my first love and my first real heartbreak.

"I have a speech," I said once we were both on our feet and his hand drifted to my face, moving aside some of my hair.

He nodded in answer and he kissed me one last time, short and sweet, and he walked to leave, reminding me so much of him at fifteen, ripping up my invite and walking away, those words "I'll kill you" coming from his lips and hanging on the air. He never could, never did, but he had been slowly killing something inside of me since then.

"Heero."

He had reached the door and stopped, his hand poised on the handle and I thought of saying that I should no longer see him – not even as a friend, as I could never be his friend as all he needed to do was look at me and a hundred times would flood back. But I didn't.

"I'll see you again?" I asked, whispered, ashamed maybe that I would always want, always need him.

"Yeah," he replied and then he was gone.

I stood for a moment, straightened my skirt, my blouse as the afterimage of his touch skittered over my skin and thought of my loveless marriage and my own sacrifice so that he could remain who he was forever. And I did not regret my decision as I would have him like this, brief passionate encounters for the rest of my life rather than making him into the shadow version of himself he would've had to become.

I would want Heero Yuy as exactly as he had always been – fire and passion, blood stained hands and dark lust filled eyes – my first and last romance.


End file.
